The Killer from Buffalo

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Tony Ransome examined what the caboose wheels had left of the large young body on the embalming table without any expression at all on his face, but deep within him was a churning bitterness.

“Sam Stone all right,” he said in a colorless voice. Then, as though conscious something aside from dazed apathy was expected of him, he added with forced briskness, “Funny, the way it missed his head completely.”

“We figure he fell square across one track with his head clear of the rails,” Chief Ward Murphy said. “The wheels caught him at belt level.”

Tony lifted achromatic eyes to the face of the fat chief. “Then how you account for his arms? A guy falling would push his arms in front of him; not hold them flat to his sides.”

“We figure he fell clear from the top of the car,” the police chief said. “Probably he rolled before the wheels hit him.”

Ransome’s lips tightened. “Or maybe he was dead before he fell.”

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